Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sweaty hands gripping a pen. The windows wide open, with the blinds slightly lowered to keep the afternoon sun from flooding the small room. The humid breeze of Tokyo in the middle of July, sneaking through the gap left in the window, trying (and failing) to cool the room down.

July was unbearable. The air was thick, and the worst part was the sticky feeling that came with it. Every time Koutarou sat on a couch, his body overheated in an instant, and he started sweating wherever his skin touched fabric. When he dared step onto the street, he was sweating, his face shining and skin greasy. Not to mention the general exhaustion.

The heat was terrible, but still, neither of them moved from where they sat on the floor. Side by side, his knee brushed Keiji’s thigh, a touch so light that, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have noticed at all. But he noticed. And it burned. Not in a bad way, though. He couldn’t quite explain it.

The only sounds were the constant hum of the wall fan, spinning from side to side without managing to cool the corners of the room. There was also the ticking of a wall clock, never stopping, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick. The noise from outside—the murmur of people heading home after a long day—drifted in through the open window.

The fan, no matter how powerful, did nothing. It only stirred the hot air coming in through the window, heavy with the sounds of kids playing outside and the buzzing of motorbikes.

Bomuto sighed, making Keiji look up, his face curious as he lifted his eyes from the tiny notebook where he’d been writing.

“You alright, Bokuto-san?” Keiji finally asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them for what felt like forever.

Bokuto was sprawled on the floor, stomach facing the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. The heat pressed against Keiji's skin, clinging to his clothes, making everything feel heavier, thicker. His fingers tightened around the pen as he tried to focus on his notes, but it was impossible to ignore Bokuto beside him. The sound of his labored breath, the slow movement of his chest as he tried to cool down.

"Akaashi..." the older one mumbled. His hair, light as it was, was completely messy, sticking to his temples, shapeless. He really needed a shower. "Let’s go to your place, this is unbearable!"

And here was the crux of the issue: Bokuto had been making excuses for weeks to spend the night at Keiji’s apartment. He knew it was because of the heat —after all, it was sweltering, and the nights only made it worse. The kind of heat that made you toss and turn on your mattress, flipping your pillow over and over in search of the faintest hint of coolness, only to surrender to the suffocating air, half-dying and only falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. Now, Bokuto didn’t even bother to come up with an excuse anymore.

But Keiji happened to have AC at his apartment. He understood.

So, it was not like Keiji minded. They were friends, after all. And honestly, he didn’t really mind having Bokuto hanging around his apartment. He liked it, even if it was a little chaotic at times. Plus, Bokuto had started waking up earlier than Keiji, getting up to make breakfast (he had said something about it being a “thank you” for letting him crash there). It reminded Keiji of a puppy, all eager and wagging his metaphorical tail as he accidentally set off the smoke alarm while trying to toast bread.

"How so?" said Keiji, blank faced

“Akaashi!” Bokuto exclaimed, suddenly jumping up from the floor like a spring, sitting upright with his eyes locked on Akaashi’s brows. “It’s way too hot! I can’t stay in this room!”

For the first time, the heat was a good enough excuse. Normally, Bokuto would call him, begging for a place to crash because, apparently “Akaashiiii, they’re doing some weird construction thing in the hallway and it’s SO LOUD I swear I haven’t rested in like 3 days 😩”, or “Akaashi!! I think there’s a bat in my room. A REAL BAT. It flew in and now I’m under a blanket”

Once, he even got a text message from Bokuto, saying “Akaashi, hlp 😭 I accidentally left my fave shirt with your laundry on tsday…….. I can’t sleep without it !!!!!”

But he knew perfectly well (after all, here he was) that Bokuto’s dorm room was hell. The guy had chosen to stay in the university dorms just to avoid the daily commute from his house during summer training. Keiji, on the other hand, lived not too far from campus, in his own apartment (tiny, yes, but decent. And slightly cooler.)

He told himself it was because of the heat, because it really was unbearable, and because Bokuto’s dorm was a furnace. But he knew that (maybe) that wasn’t the only reason.

There was something oddly grounding about the chaos Bokuto brought with him. The way he left his sneakers scattered by the entrance, or how his maniacal laugh floated around the apartment, filling the rooms like the buzz of cicadas. The way he talked through his thoughts out loud while brushing his teeth. The way he flailed in his sleep whenever Keiji pinched his nose to stop his snoring.

“Yeah, alright,” Keiji said, standing up. He closed his notebook.

Chapter Text

The heat had noticeably subsided—if the absence of sweat droplets on his temples was any indication. The blessed air conditioning (seriously, who invented this miracle?) was humming at the perfect temperature, cool enough so they wouldn’t sweat, but not so chilly that the tiny hairs on their arms would stand on end.

And yet, sprawled out on the couch, his best friend’s knee casually brushing against his thigh, Koutarou felt the scorching flames of hell consume his entire body.

He preferred not to make a big deal out of it. Akaashi’s knee wasn’t radiating heat, or at least not in the way that would explain the sudden heat flooding Koutarou’s entire body like an unexpected summer wave. So then, where was this sudden wave of warmth coming from, if not from that, or from the fabric covering the couch that scraped against the back of his thighs where he rested, or from the stiff backrest pressed to his back, making the thin fabric of his shirt cling against his skin?

He shifted slightly. Somehow, despite sitting on the same couch, despite sharing the same point of contact between them, despite their short sleeves brushing against the raised texture of the same sofa cover, Akaashi was calm, collected, completely unaffected.

Akaashi just sat there, fully at ease watching the TV, as if the air conditioning was doing its job perfectly (which, okay, technically it was). Meanwhile, Koutarou was trapped in some kind of overheating phenomenon that had absolutely nothing to do with science.

The shout of one of the show’s presenters jolted him back to reality, and, partially forgetting about the heat, he refocused his full attention on the program. It was one of those shows where contestants had to leap and flip across padded mats, sprint through mud, and scramble to the finish line, all while a pair of commentators with exaggerated voices narrated every single wipeout. Normally, Koutarou loved these kinds of shows. In fact, he had been the one to suggest watching it, and Akaashi had reluctantly agreed (though Koutarou knew the dark-haired boy enjoyed them more than he let on).

But this time, his mind was elsewhere.

Somewhere very, very far away. Somewhere beyond the bouncing contestants, beyond the ridiculous commentary, beyond the mud-splattered chaos flashing across the screen.

His eyes were technically watching the show. His ears were listening to the uproar of the studio audience. And yet, all of it felt muffled, distant.

It annoyed him. What was the point of watching obstacle races and clumsy wipeouts when his own mind was speeding at 200 miles per hour, running in circles like an absolute fool, tripping over the metaphorical mud of his thoughts, sinking into the swamp of uncertainty, and sweating from sheer overthinking? What was the point? Because here he was, making poor Keiji sit through a show he’d rather not be watching, and yet he wasn’t even paying attention to it himself.

Akaashi shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the couch. And just like that, he felt it again. That ridiculous heat. That inexplicable warmth. That traitorous, unshakable awareness.

A contestant crashed face-first into a padded wall on screen, the commentators howling with laughter. Normally, Koutarou would have been cheering, maybe even reenacting the ridiculous fall just for fun. But this time, he just blinked.

Akaashi noticed. He stared at him, completely bewildered. Or at least, as bewildered as his face could possibly show, its only real difference from his usual expression being the way his mouth had curved into a small, unmistakable “o.”

OK, dude, act normal. Act normal, act normal.

"Wow, that was a nasty hit!"

Apparently, it wasn’t enough. Akaashi was watching him, analysing him as if he knew Koutarou was up to something strange. Another plaf sound came from the TV.

“I—uh—whoa! Akaashi, did you see that?” Koutarou blurted out, suddenly pointing at the screen, trying to get the dark-haired boy’s attention, who wasn’t buying whatever the older one was trying to sell him.

Akaashi blinked, following his gaze. On screen, a contestant was flailing wildly in the mud, barely holding on to whatever shred of dignity they had left.

“…Yeah.”

He let out a forced, very unconvincing laugh. “Hah! Classic wipeout! That’s why this show is the best!”

Akaashi squinted slightly.

Just in time, as if his guardian angels had heard his prayers, the attention went fully to Akaashi, whose stomach growled into the silence of the living room, blending with the shouting from the show.

Akaashi visibly stiffened for a fraction of a second—his gaze flickering, his squint dissolving into something far less accusatory and much more mildly mortified.

Koutarou latched onto the moment like his life depended on it. He leaned forward, all exaggerated enthusiasm, like this was the greatest discovery of his entire life. “Akaashi! Are you hungry?”

The dark-haired boy sighed, gave him a long, knowing stare. “Obviously.”

After giving him a couple of slaps on the shoulder to send him off for some food, Akaashi got up from the couch, lazily slipping on his house slippers. Once he left, muttering that he would prepare something quick for the two of them, Koutarou relaxed.

He flopped back against the couch, exhaling dramatically, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to his predicament. The show was still on, but now he could afford to ignore it, with the background noise soothing him.

Koutarou let out a long breath, the kind that deflated him like a balloon with a slow leak, and let his body sink further into the cushions. He still felt warm.

His feet, stuffed into a pair of white socks that were slightly too small and squeezed his calves, were pulled up onto the couch, taking advantage of Keiji’s absence. He stretched out, arms and legs angled diagonally across the sofa, taking up almost the entire thing. It was an old couch, hard as a rock, and covered with an uncomfortable, bumpy fabric meant to protect it from summer sweat. No matter how uncomfortable, small, or narrow the sofa was, Koutarou had grown somewhat fond of it, considering how many afternoons he’d spent there playing cards with Akaashi and Kenma, and how many times he’d taken long naps with his cheek squished up against one of the cushions that matched the couch. That sofa was practically an honorary member of the apartment, since it had been there even before Keiji moved in, just less than a year ago.

He wondered how many people had come through this place. How many people had flushed that toilet. How many had spent their afternoons playing cards on that worn-out couch.

It wasn’t the biggest place, and it definitely wasn’t spotless, but Koutarou liked it here. He liked the way the curtains were always a little crooked, how the faint smell of coffee lingered no matter the hour, and how one of the light bulbs in the bathroom always flickered.

In the kitchen, in the cabinet to the right just above the sink, Akaashi kept a collection of mugs. Most of them were pretty tacky, useful souvenirs from small towns or freebies from local bakeries, but Keiji treated them like treasures. There was one he considered his favorite, and he wouldn’t let anyone touch it, afraid it might break. There wasn’t anything particularly special about it, except for a faded drawing of Snoopy in the middle. Akaashi adored that mug. He claimed it was because of its shape—the rim flared out just slightly, the kind of curve that made it more “ergonomic,” perfect for resting against your lips.

Koutarou also had a favourite one: a giant navy blue one with a chip on the rim, just shallow enough to still drink from without cutting your lip. He always reached for it without thinking, and Keiji never stopped him.

He loved the way the floorboards creaked slightly in the hallway, how the fridge always made a quiet hum in the middle of the night, the way Keiji’s slippers always sat perfectly aligned by the door.

Sometimes, he caught himself referring to it as home, only to backtrack in his head a second later, correcting it with a hasty Akaashi’s place. But the slip always lingered. Because it did feel like home, in a quiet, sideways kind of way. It made sense. He spent a lot of time there. Especially that summer.

Akaashi had been kind enough that first time, offering shelter from the heat, not realizing he had signed a contract with the devil himself. Koutarou came back again and again, always looking to spend the night in that blessed, air-conditioned place, in the cool, peaceful apartment where, if he wanted, he could sleep in long pyjama pants and not roast alive.

Maybe it was too much, and sometimes Koutarou wondered if he was taking too much advantage of the younger boy’s kindness. But it was so, so necessary for him to get a good night’s sleep, and thus he swallowed the guilt with a loud gulp of cold water. Koutarou knew that, if it really bothered Keiji, he’d tell him to leave.

So yes, Akaashi’s apartment had become the perfect place to spend his days and nights.

He was running out of excuses to show up at Akaashi’s door every other night. By now, after several weeks, he knew that the dark-haired boy was well aware of Koutarou’s tactics, but he couldn’t help feeling the need to hide behind a little white lie. Besides, they weren’t really lies, just slightly exaggerated stories.

Each time, the lie rolled off his tongue a little too smoothly. He knew Akaashi wasn’t fooled, but it had become part of the routine. An innocent game, a little ritual.

Technically, he did it because his dorm room was way too hot.

The university student housing didn’t have air conditioning, and while the small room was perfectly cozy in the winter, summer turned it into a complete nightmare. Koutarou spent most of his mornings out of the house, hanging out with friends or—more often—at practice. But at night, after taking a cold shower, he’d dare to lie down on his bed, and the moment his skin touched the sheets, he’d start sweating like a madman.

Koutarou was already a warm-blooded guy by default, always running a little hot. This was just the final straw.

At first, he tried to tough it out. A couple of weeks sleeping with the windows wide open and the fan on level 5, the highest setting. It didn’t help. And since he wasn’t sleeping well (if he managed to sleep at all) he wasn’t performing great at morning practice either.

This clearly wasn’t something he’d thought through before signing his housing contract. But by the time reality hit, it was too late to back out, and he didn’t exactly have the money to go hunting for a second place. Besides, the main perk was how close it was to the courts.

Akaashi’s apartment, while not quite as close, was still within walking distance from the university and, more importantly, the courts. It wasn’t a perfect place by any means, but it was convenient.

And he loved spending time with his friend, if he was being honest.

A door creaked open down the hall.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi called from the kitchen, his voice calm but carrying, “do you want miso or egg for the soup?”

The sound pulled him out of his thoughts like a hook to the chest. He sat up a little straighter, blinking.

“Uh..., whichever you’re having!”

“Miso, then. Get off your ass and come to the kitchen.”

Koutarou sank back into the couch, a dopey smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he could stop it. He stared at the ceiling, wondering when exactly this place had started to feel more like home than anywhere else.

❃ ❂ ❃

Keiji, openly and honestly, didn’t know what he was doing.

It had been less than a couple of months since he started playing bass, and although he would have liked to say he was already great at it, he would have been lying. He didn’t practice as much as he wanted to, and while he had set himself the goal of playing the instrument for half an hour every day, he was failing miserably.

Keiji’s main problem was, above all, his lack of consistency. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t a hardworking guy; he had been his whole life. He was full of ambition, every New Year’s Eve coming up with new resolutions that he swore he would achieve, and which he actually followed through with. However, he found it very difficult to establish a routine on his own, unless there was a deadline pushing him or a partner in suffering encouraging him.

And that was exactly what happened when he played the bass. He was alone; it was his responsibility to move the strings of the instrument, just as it was his responsibility to find a music store to buy the cables to connect the bass to the amplifier or to look for the tabs he wanted to learn.

Keiji sighed as he plucked at the strings of his bass, the sound lingering in the silence of his room. He couldn’t help but feel frustrated with himself.

Maybe it was just his nature. He couldn’t keep things up without external pressure. The thought of having no one to ask questions to, no clear goal ahead of him, made him feel aimless. Even now, with the bass in his hands, he felt like he was just going through the motions, hoping that somehow it would all click.

Also, it seemed that Keiji got discouraged quickly. He had realized this recently, an afternoon where he got frustrated because the strings on his bass guitar didn’t sound quite like the guy’s in the cover. He had put the bass aside and thrown himself onto the bed to do sudoku.

He had never been like this.

Keiji’s fingers hovered over the bass strings; his gaze focused on the fretboard where his other hand rested. The off-key melody from before still lingered in the back of his mind. This frustration, this feeling of being stuck wasn’t like him.

He’d always been good at things. At least, that’s what people had always told him. Whether it was school, sports, making friends, Keiji had a knack for figuring it out. He could learn fast, adapt quickly. Everything came with a little bit of effort, but he usually didn’t have to struggle for long.

He had to stop expecting everything to come easily. He knew that. The only difference now was that he didn’t have a teacher or someone pushing him forward. This was all on him.

"Please, sound right." He muttered under his breath, reassuring himself. He gripped the neck of the bass, trying again, this time focusing less on perfection and more on the process. His fingers fumbled a little, and although it felt like always, he was a bit more hopeful.

Just as his mind settled into the rhythm of playing, something popped into his head, completely unrelated. Grocery shopping. He’d forgotten to pick up the essentials. The fridge was empty, and he was out of milk. It was mostly Bokuto's fault, as usual. Although Keiji ate a lot too, so the two of them together devoured food like Vikings.

The mundane reality of life was stronger than anything. Few minutes after, he had grabbed his wallet and headed for the door, his mind already moving on to the next task. But as he stepped outside, he felt a quiet sense of relief. It was funny how something as simple as a quick errand could pull him out of his head. He was still figuring things out with the bass, but he knew he would get there. One step at a time.

It was so hot outside that he thought the soles of his Crocs might actually stick to the pavement. The sun beat down mercilessly as he started walking toward the little store a couple of blocks down. His mind wandered as he walked, unconsciously making a mental checklist of all the things he needed to buy or that were running out: toothpaste, a new pack of toothbrushes, onions, tomatoes, ground beef, toilet paper, a package of Band-Aids…

The list was endless, and yet somehow, it gave him a sense of routine. He found comfort in the mundane, the predictability of the tasks, as if they held his life together. He liked it, and many times he’d found himself bored at home, thinking about going out just to buy some bread, simply for the chance to breathe some fresh air and stroll without any rush. He’d find small excuses to put on his headphones and walk the crowded streets of Tokyo, quickly slipping on his sneakers and grabbing whatever loose change he had.

Of course, when it was a bigger shopping trip, it felt like a hassle. He didn’t live far from the store, and there was a larger supermarket just a couple of minutes more on foot. But just thinking about the return trip home, loaded down with bags—though they weren’t heavy enough to make him complain—made him feel a wave of laziness.

Soon, he arrived, and the moment he stepped inside, he was hit by the coolness of the air-conditioned shop. It was a small place, with only the essentials on the shelves and a bakery in the corner selling fresh, crispy bread and buttery rolls that always smelled so tempting. The comforting scent of baked goods filled the air, briefly distracting him from his scattered thoughts.

Blue shopping cart in hand, he began strolling down the five narrow aisles. His first stop was the dry goods section, where he picked up a couple of tomatoes and squeezed them into a plastic bag.

As he tied the bag closed, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration snapped him out of his reverie. He finished securing the bag and quickly pulled out his phone, sighing when he saw the name on the incoming call.

With the phone pressed to his ear, Bokuto’s voice came through loud and fast.

“Akaashi! I just remembered you never told me what you thought about that movie…what was it called again? I Like It Hot?” He took a dramatic breath. “Speaking of hot—IT’S SO HOT, I’m melting over here!”

Another beat, then:

“What if I came over and you told me what you thought? I have to know. Like, really. I might die if I don’t.”

"It's Some Like It Hot, Bokuto-san," he corrected with a fond smile on his face. "You may come."

There was a dramatic gasp on the other end of the line. “Akaaaashi, you’re so formal! It’s like being invited to a tea party with a queen!”

“Sorry,” Keiji said as he placed a bag of rice into his cart. “You wouldn’t be invited to my tea party, though. You’d knock over the kettle within five minutes.”

“Only because you’d never let me pour it!” Bokuto whined, indignant. “You would make me nervous, actually. Like, oh no, what if I do it wrong and he judges me with his intense eyebrow stare?”

Keiji arched a brow, very much alone in the rice aisle. “I do not have an intense eyebrow stare.”

“You absolutely do,” Bokuto insisted.

Keiji was laughing now, quietly, as he maneuvered the cart toward the dairy section. “I’ll try to blink more.”

Bokuto laughed out loud, so loudly that Keiji feared his phone was on speaker and everyone could hear his friend's booming laugh. Keiji grabbed a pack of yogurts while quietly chuckling as Bokuto calmed down, taking deep breaths.

Once he calmed down, still with a breathy voice, he said, "Well, I'm almost at your house!"

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Keiji glanced at his phone, squinting at the time. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was relieved or mildly terrified. “I’ll be waiting. But, what do you mean by ‘almost’? How far away are you?”

Bokuto hummed in response, sounding completely nonchalant. “Like, two blocks away. Maybe three.”

“I’m farther away than you are right now.” Keiji said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be there soon.”

Bokuto hummed, satisfied with what he was hearing.

Bokuto was always coming up with spontaneous plans, but the fact that he was suggesting coming over and was already so close to his house had Keiji feeling a little suspicious. “Did you plan this, Bokuto-san?”

“Nah, man, no!” Bokuto replied in one breath. “I just finished training, and then I remembered that movie you were talking about the other day. I started thinking about it, and now I need to know what’s your final verdict. Should I watch it? Is it worth my time? Is it sad? I have so many questions!”

Keiji glanced at the milk in his cart, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Sure.”

“Alright, I’m gonna stop and grab some snacks,” Bokuto said, practically buzzing with excitement. “Open the door when I ring the bell!”

And with that, he hung up. As Keiji stuffed his phone back into his pocket, he felt a familiar weight of amusement settle over him.

He grabbed the last things he was missing, just some toothpaste and toothbrushes and, dragging the now heavy cart behind him, headed for the checkout, ready to walk out with an empty wallet. Just then, the door chime worked its magic, and soon enough, Keiji had a body crashing into his. Bokuto’s smile was so close, he could feel it against his ear.

“Well, at least you won’t have to wait outside.”

❃ ❂ ❃

The bed was small, narrow enough that their knees and shoulders bumped more than once, but neither of them seemed to mind. Bokuto kept inching closer like a cat who didn’t understand personal space, and the soft hum of the air conditioner mixed with the quiet creaks of the apartment settling into the night kept them company.

“Will you stay still already,” Keiji murmured, eyes closed but not quite asleep thanks to Bokuto’s constant shifting.

“I just can’t get comfortable,” the other whined, squirming again on the mattress and tugging the sheet with him.

Keiji exhaled slowly through his nose. He’s worse than a cat, he thought, adjusting the blanket to cover his side, which Bokuto had just uncovered. Sleeping with the air conditioning on gave them the luxury of covering themselves with a thin blanket, one so light it really did nothing but offer a false sense of comfort.

Bokuto tugged the blanket again, and Keiji’s side was left exposed once more. He gave up; with Bokuto so close, the warmth radiating off him was more than enough.

“Would you rather sleep on the couch?”

There was a pause. A long one. Keiji could practically feel the pout forming in the dark.

“No.” Bokuto said at last.

He stayed quiet, silently praying to whatever gods might be listening that Bokuto would finally relax and fall asleep. Out of habit, Keiji had learned that Bokuto usually fell asleep fairly quickly, or at least that was the case when he actually intended to. The guy just had to lay his head on the pillow and he was out cold. Tonight, though, didn’t seem to be one of those nights.

Honestly, Keiji didn’t mind having Bokuto sleeping in his 190-centimeter bed. It was more comforting than any thin blanket could ever be. If he woke up rested, which he usually did, it didn’t bother him one bit to have his annoying best friend drooling on his arm.

Bokuto moved what seemed like one last time, finally settling into a comfortable position. He curled onto his side, almost in fetal position, his knees bumping lightly against Keiji’s thigh. His breath came steady but uneven, and Keiji counted the gentle rise and fall of his chest, grounding himself in the presence beside him.

For a moment, everything was still, the soft rhythm of their breathing filling the quiet room. Then, very slowly, Bokuto shifted again. First, his head lifted just a little from the pillow, moving toward Keiji’s shoulder, who laid facing up. Finally, Bokuto’s forehead rested gently against Keiji’s shoulder.

A few minutes later, just as Keiji was about to surrender to the sweet, long-awaited embrace of sleep, he sensed another movement. A faint warmth pressed against Keiji’s arm; the weight of Bokuto’s hand, light but unmistakable. He didn’t pull away.

Still, he did let out a quiet laugh. Bokuto’s tactic of moving comically slowly, like he was trying not to startle his prey before pouncing, was honestly kind of adorable.

If he thought about it too much, his heart would start beating faster than it should. So, instead, he tried to go back to counting sheep.

At some point, Bokuto tried to wrap an arm around Keiji’s waist.

They lasted about two minutes like that.

“Too hot,” Akaashi muttered, pushing gently at Bokuto’s chest without opening his eyes.

Bokuto grumbled in response but didn’t move right away. After a few moments, he loosened his grip, moving his arm and allowing Keiji to breathe again.

But in the end, they fell asleep. And if Akaashi woke up with his friend’s arm wrapped around his chest and a bit of drool on the fabric of his shirt, it was only relevant to him, quietly startled awake with a small internal squeak.

Chapter Text

After a couple of days, Bokuto showed up at his doorstep, holding a lemon popsicle in one hand and three wilted flowers in the other. Keiji, of course, let him in, and before he could say anything about the three yellow tulips, Bokuto pushed them into his hands.

Confused, Keiji didn’t say much more than thank you. But he understood what those flowers were for.

Keiji had trimmed the stems of the tulips and placed them carefully in a glass of water on the coffee table.

As usual, the two of them had ended up sprawled on the couch, dressed in light T-shirts and shorts, the late afternoon warmth wrapping around them like a blanket. Bokuto was utterly absorbed in his phone, thumbs flying with frenetic energy.

His thumbs moved like they were chasing a high score, darting across the screen with extreme focus. The constant tapping and the occasional 'well done!' coming from the video game made Keiji stare for a moment, the corners of his mouth tugging up just slightly—Bokuto always did have a way of filling the silence, even when he wasn’t speaking.

Keiji glanced at the tulips standing stiffly in the glass of water. “Think these flowers will survive?” he asked.

Bokuto didn’t look up. “Hey, they’re tougher than they look.”

Keiji leaned back into the cushions, watching Bokuto’s fingers dart across the screen like lightning. The soft glow from the phone illuminated his focused face, the usual wild energy momentarily softened.

“You know,” Keiji said quietly, “I think those tulips remind me of you.”

Bokuto glanced up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Pretty?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi nodded, a little smirk playing on his lips. “But I was thinking more about what you said… how they’re though. Yeah, they’re pretty, but also strong.”

Bokuto’s grin softened, and he looked down at the tulips. “Tough, huh? I don’t usually think about myself that way.”

Akaashi’s voice was gentle. “That’s what makes it different.”

Bokuto chuckled, shaking his head. “You are so weird, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi’s smirk widened just a bit. “Maybe. But it’s true. You hold on even when things get rough.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward but filled with something unspoken.

“Akaashiiiii! What did I do to deserve all these sweet words?” Bokuto finally said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Just existing.”

“‘Kaashii, man!” he got nervous, judging by the trembling of his lips and the color rising to his ears. Keiji chuckled quietly. Bokuto pressed his lips tight before saying, “You’re strong too. Stronger than me.”

“Between the two of us, I’m not the one training every day, all the time.”

“Don’t act dumb, you know what I mean,” Bokuto grumbled. Now his neck was red too. He looked hilarious, all flushed like a little painted porcelain doll.

Bokuto was an easy guy to fluster. He'd instantly turn into a blushing mess, hands flying to the back of his neck with a high pitched yelp of embarrassment—but he never hid.

It was the kind of endearing shame that he liked to feel, that left his whole body tingling from the tips of his toes to his fingertips. There was something sweet in how open he was about it, how he never tried to mask what he felt.

That very night, in fact, Bokuto had been the shyest ever. While scrolling through Twitter, he suddenly suggested they listen to a playlist he had just put together. His eyes sparkled: golden, amber, like coins catching the sun, and Keiji couldn’t bring himself to say no. He didn’t want to.

Bokuto insisted they listen through his headphones, to “fully immerse themselves in the experience,” he said with a grin too wide for such a small room.

Keiji, seated on the bed with his back against the wall, waited patiently as the gray-haired boy rummaged through his backpack in search of the headphones. After a few seconds of chaotic digging, Bokuto threw himself onto the bed face-first, bouncing slightly as he landed.

The headphone cable was impossibly tangled (though, considering Bokuto… this wasn't exactly surprising), and Bokuto only made things worse by tugging at both ends in frustration.

“Let me help you,” Keiji muttered softly, leaning down to the older boy’s level, their heads nearly brushing.

It really was a hopeless knot. How had it gotten this tangled? Not that it mattered, because now, with Bokuto so close (Ah!), everything else faded a little. His heart was doing something awkward, skipping and thudding at the same time.

His whole focus went to the knot between their fingers, feeling the thin wires beneath his skin. Untangling this mess, one loop at a time, would help slow his racing thoughts. His fingers moved deliberately, careful not to tug too hard, trying to anchor himself to the simple task. But even as he stared at the mess, Keiji found it hard to concentrate on the wires. Bokuto was close. Too close. And the warmth of him, the quiet rise and fall of his breath, was so grounding and so utterly distracting at once.

“You look so serious, Akaashi,” Bokuto said with an amused lilt, glancing up at him from where he lay. “It’s kind of funny.”

Akaashi glanced at him briefly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he quickly returned his attention to the tangled knots of the headphones.

Keiji’s fingers brushed Bokuto’s as they both reached for the same knot, and for a second, neither moved. Their eyes met.

And something hung there. Quiet and soft. A breath not taken. We should kiss. We are so gay, I—

His fingers stayed there, lightly touching Bokuto’s. Warm. Steady. Maybe trembling a little, though he’d deny it if asked.

Bokuto didn’t look away. He didn’t start to blush yet, either. Instead, "You're blushing, Akaashi."

And then he grinned, crooked and boyish and absolutely himself. Bitch.

Keiji scoffed lightly, tried to retreat to the safe haven of sarcasm. “So are you,” he lied.

In that moment, progressively, Bokuto started blushing for real. His smile faltered, not in a bad way but more like a pause, a realization settling in. He glanced down at their hands, then back at Keiji, then back again at their hands still holding the tangled cords.

His eyes were slightly wider now, as if something had just clicked into place.

“Do you wanna…?” Bokuto began, and that was all he said. But Keiji heard it.

Do I want what?

To help untangle the rest? To listen to the playlist? To lean in, close that strange space that had formed between them? No. Maybe. Sure.

His brain scrambled for clarity, but with Bokuto right there in front of him, looking at him expectantly and without saying a word, he couldn’t do it at all.

Keiji sat back a little, not pulling away, but giving himself just a breath of space. Enough to think. “Do I want…?”

“Yeah. I don’t know either,” and then Bokuto sat up properly, cross-legged on the bed, the knot of cords falling in his lap. “I just thought—I don’t know. This felt like… something.”

“It does,” Keiji said before he could stop himself “feel like something.”

Bokuto hid in the momentary silence that filled the room, turning his gaze away. Keiji glanced at him sidelong. Bokuto, nervous, was a very specific kind of tender. Less volume, more rawness.

Keiji reached for the headphone cable. His fingers found the mess of wires again, tangled, stretched, looping over themselves like a puzzle. It gave him something to do. Something to hold in his hands while the rest of him tried to make sense of whatever this was.

The grey-haired boy’s eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall like he could stare right through it.

Keiji worked on the knots carefully, slowly, keeping his eyes mostly on the cords, though his attention still drifted back to the boy next to him.

“Bokuto,” he said, not looking at him. “when you said ‘this felt like something’, what did you mean?”

Silence. Not heavy, but cautious.

Then:

“I don’t know.”

Keiji hummed softly in response, still untangling. The wire slipped through a tight loop, and he loosened it without tugging.

Bokuto continued, “I think I just noticed, like, a big shift. Or something.”

“That’s fair,” he said eventually.

After a couple of seconds of stillness, Bokuto threw his hands over his face and let out a groan. “I’m sorry. I made it weird.”

“Well, you are weird,” Keiji replied, his voice calm but with a hint of a smile.

Bokuto peeked at him from behind his hands, a little sheepish. Keiji caught himself suppressing a grin. There was something endearing about how Bokuto could so easily switch from vulnerable to ridiculous in a heartbeat.

“Let’s take it slow, Bokuto-san,” Keiji said. He spilled the now detangled headphones onto the older boy’s lap, a sweet little smile forming on his lips. Bokuto looked down at the headphones, his face showing an indescribable daze. “How about you show me that playlist?”

❃ ❂ ❃

The next morning, Koutarou woke up before the sun was fully up. He chalked it up to his usual routine, waking up at some ungodly hour to sprint to morning practice four out of seven days a week. Even without an alarm clock blaring from the nightstand, the routine is carved into his body—especially into his eyelids, which, as soon as it hits seven a.m., just open.

Either way, he liked waking up early at Akaashi’s place. It felt like having exclusive access to a quiet apartment (a silence he himself would soon break with the clatter of the toaster, mugs, and plates).

The room was still dim, pale light spilling through the curtains. He didn’t want to wake Akaashi just yet, so he moved carefully, like one loud breath might shatter the calm.

He padded into the kitchen barefoot, opening cupboards with exaggerated caution. He’d done this enough times now to know where everything was: the coffee, the little jar of sugar Akaashi barely used, the mug with a tiny chip on the rim that he always reached for.

Koutarou hummed softly under his breath as the coffee brewed, a shapeless tune, barely audible over the gurgle of the machine. He poured the coffee with both hands, steady, remembering exactly how Akaashi liked it: just a splash of milk, no sugar.

He wasn't making much noise. However, his mind wouldn’t quiet down.

He thought about the night before, how Akaashi’s fingers had brushed against his, warm and careful, and how they’d both paused like the world had tilted a little. Like something unspoken had pressed into the space between them. Not quite a moment, not quite a confession.

Koutarou had tried to name it—he always tried to name things—but the words hadn’t come. Just a quiet flutter in his chest, like something soft and living had settled there, waiting.

He didn’t know what “Do you wanna…?” had meant exactly. Not then. Not even now, hours later. But the look in Akaashi’s eyes, the one that didn’t flinch, had made something inside Koutarou feel seen in a way that was rare.

It hadn’t ended in a kiss. It hadn’t needed to. Keiji had said, Let’s take it slow, and Koutarou—despite how much his instincts screamed to push, to fix, to do something—had nodded.

When the mug was warm in his palms and the scent filled the kitchen, Bokuto allowed himself a small smile.

No pressure. No answers. Just this morning, and a coffee the way Keiji liked it.

Koutarou took a slow sip of the coffee, savouring the warmth as the quiet morning wrapped around him. But as much as he wanted to sit back and enjoy the drink, he knew he couldn’t stay idle forever. Akaashi wasn’t the type to wake up on his own before noon—not without an alarm, anyway— and he would quickly get bored of being alone and without conversation.

Mugs in hand, he padded back to the bedroom, his bare feet muffled against the floor.

He left Akaashi’s snoopy mug on the bedside table, but took a sip of his. Standing over the bed, he watched Akaashi for a moment, the way his dark hair spilled messily over the pillow, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep.

“Akaashi,” he whispered (or what he thought was whispering), brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Come on, coffee’s gonna get cold soon.”

No response. Koutarou bit back a laugh, knowing full well this was going to take some patience. The last thing he wanted was to get an angry Akaashi. If he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, he would stay in a bad mood all day.

He tried again, voice low and warm. “Hey, Akaashi. Time to wake up.”

Still nothing.

He sat next to him on the bed, nudging Akaashi’s shoulder gently with his hand. “You’re such a heavy sleeper, you know that?”

A muffled groan came from the bed, and Keiji shifted beneath the covers, turning away without really wanting to get up.

Koutarou waited patiently, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. After a beat, he leaned closer with a playful grin. “Come on, wake up. I’m bored already.”

Before Koutarou could try to whisper again, Keiji’s eyelids fluttered open, slow and reluctant. When his eyes met Bokuto’s, there was a brief, sleepy confusion that melted into a small, grateful smile.

“Morning,” Akaashi mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Koutarou’s smile widened. “Morning. Coffee’s ready.”

Akaashi stretched, still curled against the sheets, and Koutarou could see the way his fingers flexed over his head. He was still lingering on the quiet ache of last night’s touch.

Koutarou stayed seated as Akaashi shifted under the covers, slow and quiet like always. No flinching. No weird pause. Just sleepy limbs and mussed-up hair and a soft grunt as he rolled onto his side.

But Koutarou couldn’t stop watching him. Help.

He sipped his coffee, more for something to do than out of need. His brain was already buzzing. What now? Had last night been weird? Had he made it weird? Did Akaashi think that whole tangled-headphones, almost-touching, almost-confession moment was just Bokuto being dumb?

Akaashi was sitting up now, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of one hand.

Koutarou picked up Akaashi’s mug from the nightstand and held it out to him. Akaashi sniffed the aroma of the coffee.

“You made it just right,” Akaashi murmured, voice rough with sleep. His eyes flicked up, soft and sure. “The coffee, I mean.”

Bokuto felt his face heat, a slow grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Chapter Text

They didn’t mean to fall asleep.

It had only been a few days since they last saw each other. Three and a half, technically, not that anyone was counting.

And not that they hadn’t talked. Akaashi always replied to his messages. Always sent back “lol” or “Bokuto-san, that’s not what kombucha is,” or little dry observations that made Koutarou laugh out loud in the middle of crowded trains. So no, they weren’t distant. Just busy. Life got loud. Practices, deadlines, late dinners with friends. But even in the middle of all that, it still felt like Akaashi was there, just on the other end of the screen.

It wasn’t supposed to be a long visit. He’d just dropped by to say hi (Ahem! Yes, sure). They talked a little. Laughed a little. Koutarou flopped onto the couch like a starfish, arms spread dramatically, declaring that the weather was "emotionally humid" and he could not, under any circumstances, be productive.

Akaashi rolled his eyes. But he didn’t tell him to leave.

Somewhere in between a conversation about the best way to peel a boiled egg,—don’t be stupid, of course it’s from the bottom—it happened.

They accidentally fell asleep.

Koutarou fell asleep first, mouth hanging open and neck twisted, his whole body slumped to one side. Akaashi lay down beside him, resting against his friend’s soft (muscular, Akaashi!) shoulder. Soon, he too surrendered to sleep, a heavy drowsiness settling over his eyelids.

And as quickly as the dark-haired boy closed his eyes, it was suddenly three in the afternoon.

Koutarou stirred first, head resting against a hard cushion. His neck ached a little from the angle, and his front felt oddly warm.

Akaashi was already half-awake, eyes still shut but breathing steady, calm. His hand—God—was resting lightly against Koutarou’s hip, like it had wandered there in sleep and decided to stay.

The apartment was still, sunlight yawning across the floor, warm and too bright for how quiet it felt. His eyelids fluttered, brain sluggish. His first thought was: Oh.

His second was: Don’t move yet.

And, as promised, he didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still for a couple of seconds, like a statue, and a few more just to be safe. He was hungry, though, and as his stomach growled, he knew it was over.

Akaashi shifted slightly in his sleep, drifting back from the world of dreams, and his hand—the one resting on Koutarou’s hip—absently traced a couple of slow, lazy circles with his finger.

Koutarou nearly imploded on the spot. His soul left his body and hovered about six feet above the couch, screaming into a void only he could hear. But before he could fully spiral, Akaashi’s voice, rough from the nap, cut through the moment:

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m like, chill hungry” he tried. His voice came out rough even to his own ears, which meant he’d definitely been snoring like some ancient grandpa. Luckily, Akaashi was a heavy sleeper and hadn’t noticed. If he had, Koutarou would’ve woken up to Akaashi pinching his nose shut and a sharp gust of air in response.

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Akaashi looked up at him from where he was still tucked against Koutarou’s shoulder, his brow slightly furrowed in quiet contradiction, like he wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed, amused, or both. He looked at him for a long, dazed second, like he hadn’t quite adjusted to being awake. His gaze dropped briefly to where his hand still rested on Koutarou’s waist.

He pulled his hand away, and Koutarou was left with a gaping, existential void.

“What time is it?” Akaashi’s voice was rough with sleep.

Koutarou smiled down at him, fond and kind of in awe. “Almost 3 p.m. We napped.”

“Apparently.”

Koutarou didn’t move. “It was a good nap.”

“Debatable.”

He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the fog lingering behind his eyes. The quiet hum of the apartment felt almost too peaceful, like the calm right before a storm, or maybe just before Akaashi judged him for drooling too much. “We should eat,” Akaashi said.

“I could eat,” He admitted. He straightened up on the couch just as Akaashi fully got up, standing in front of the coffee table.

Akaashi made a face when he saw Koutarou, “Aww, you drooled on the pillow,” He said, stretching with a quiet pop of his back.

“Well, you drooled on my arm,” Koutarou echoed, already pushing himself upright with a big yawn. His hair stuck up on one side. “It was such a good nap that even my head hurts.”

Akaashi didn’t dignify that with a response. He padded barefoot toward the kitchen, staggering a little on his feet.

As Akaashi entered the kitchen, the apartment fell silent. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight spilling through the curtains, painting golden patterns over the walls.

Koutarou stretched his arms above his head, cracking his knuckles theatrically. The ache in his scalp pulsed gently as a reminder of how deeply rested he actually was. His muscles felt loose, but his mind was already flickering toward food.

As if he had read his mind, Akaashi’s voice floated back from the kitchen. “We are doing something low effort. Cold food, eh?”

Koutarou smirked and pushed himself off the couch, his bare feet thudding softly against the wooden floor as he made his way into the kitchen. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of soap and something faintly herbal, probably from Akaashi’s tea stash. He glanced over to where Akaashi was already rifling through the fridge with a quiet, focused expression, sleeves rolled up just a bit, revealing lean, strong forearms.

“I was in the mood for some soup,” whined the older one, moving closer to Akaashi and, between the gap of his shoulder and his head, peering into the fridge.

“You sleep at my place, I feed you, and you still have the nerve to make requests about what to eat?” Akaashi laughed, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as he grabbed a couple of cucumbers and tomatoes from the fridge. Two boiled eggs, too. “Let’s do something simple. I thought we could do a cold pasta salad, maybe with some veggies and tuna.”

“Okay,” He started pulling out a bowl from the cabinet and grabbed a pair of tongs. “I’ll handle the pasta.”

Akaashi looked over, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will you, now?”

Koutarou grinned wide, puffing out his chest with mock pride. “You doubt my pasta abilities?”

“I’ve seen you try to strain spaghetti in spoonfuls,” Akaashi said, entirely too calm about the accusation.

“That was one time.” He pouted.

They moved in a quiet, domestic sort of rhythm, familiar in a way that neither of them really acknowledged out loud. Koutarou boiled and stirred the pasta clockwise, with more speed than necessary. Akaashi sliced vegetables with precise, almost surgical efficiency, eyes flicking between his cutting board and the fridge, murmuring half-thoughts about whether they had olives or not.

The kitchen was small, and they kept stepping around each other, bumping hips, swapping utensils. Akaashi kept humming a melody Koutarou didn’t recognize, but it was probably the last song he had been practicing on bass. Every now and then, the spiky-haired boy would blurt out a thought at random, and Akaashi would respond absently while tossing the vegetables into a bowl and seasoning them. It was chaotic, but somehow, they made it work.

Koutarou reached up to grab a colander from the high cabinet above the stove, and at the same time, Akaashi moved forward to open the spice drawer right below it.

Their heads bumped—just barely—but it was enough that their noses touched, too close for a second too long.

“Whoa,” Koutarou breathed, blinking down at him. His hand was still up, fingers brushing the edge of the colander, but all his attention had zeroed in on Akaashi's startled face, barely a few centimeters away.

Akaashi stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. He seemed… Amused? Or was that on his eyes affection? Oh god. Was it affection?

Then he laughed. A real one. Bright and full of air, like he’d been holding it in all day. He took a step back, hand coming up to rub his nose with a lopsided grin.

“Why do these ridiculously cute moments keep happening to us?” he asked, voice warm and teasing. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Koutarou blinked again, heart thudding somewhere up in his ears. “What?” he said, dumbly. Then, “No! I’m just tall! And you were right there, and I wasn’t trying to—!”

Akaashi laughed again, softer this time, and shook his head. He turned back to the counter like nothing had happened, but there was still that smile tugging at his lips.

Koutarou remained frozen for a second longer, cheeks warm and limbs suddenly too big for the space around him. He cleared his throat and stirred the pasta one last time before it got mushy. He drained it in the damn colander, with cold water. How good it would feel to splash his own face with cold water… He was feeling jealous of some vegetable macaroni.

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” he muttered after a while, still not looking up. “But if I was... would that be bad?”

Akaashi didn’t answer at first. He moved around Koutarou, brushing their shoulders together lightly as he went to fetch the oil and salt. There was a long pause. Koutarou could feel him thinking.

“No,” Akaashi said at last, not looking up either. “Not bad.”

Koutarou turned around. He handed the colander full of pasta to Akaashi so he could pour it into the bowl with the rest of the salad. He leaned back against the counter. “What if I’m doing it unconsciously? Maybe my brain just wants affection. I swear, sometimes my brain gets all itchy.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is!” Koutarou called after him. “I’m tragically touch-starved!”

“You’re not,” Akaashi replied, mixing everything in the bowl.

“I could be.”

“You’re not. I know exactly how many people hugged you last week. You sent me a list.”

Koutarou paused. “Okay, true. But this week I’ve been going from bad to worse.”

Akaashi sighed, pulling out a small container of olives. “You hugged me in your sleep, Bokuto-san.”

“That doesn’t count! That was involuntary! You can’t hold my subconscious against me.”

Akaashi looked at him, one brow arched. “Then stop blaming your subconscious for all the flirting.”

Koutarou went very still.

Then, slowly, dramatically, he placed a hand over his heart. “So, you do think I’m flirting.”

Akaashi did not answer right away. He tossed the olives into the bowl, mixed it a bit more. His movements were calm and measured, but there was something deliberate in the way he avoided Koutarou’s gaze. Koutarou watched him closely, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion.

“You hesitated,” Koutarou said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You totally hesitated!”

“I was thinking.” Akaashi finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Koutarou’s with a slow, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I do think you’re flirting.”

Koutarou went stiff. And that’s putting it mildly. His jaw literally dropped. Even though he knew Akaashi never held back, it was a total shock to see how direct he could be about… this. Whatever this was.

He swallowed hard, feeling heat rush up his neck, “Well, just so you know, it’s my subconscious.”

His heart hammered loud enough that he was sure Akaashi could hear it. He couldn’t look away. Not that he wanted to. There was something softer in Akaashi’s gaze, something almost amused. His dark hair fell in loose strands over his forehead, the way it caught the blinding kitchen light making it seem even more midnight-black. Koutarou found himself fixating on those strands, the slight curve at the tips, as if tracing them would somehow steady the wild mess of nerves twisting inside him.

Akaashi chuckled, the sound gentle and warm, like a secret shared in a quiet room. “Then your subconscious has good taste.”

Koutarou felt a heat rise to his cheeks, his hands suddenly awkward as he tried to hide them behind his back. The silence between them stretched, thick and full, until Akaashi cleared his throat and busied himself with stirring the salad, breaking the spell.

“Let’s eat before you turn this into a flirting 101 class,” Akaashi teased lightly, but his eyes lingered on Koutarou a moment longer.

Koutarou laughed, but it came out uneven, like the sound had tripped over his nerves on the way out. “I could teach a class,” he said, voice louder than it needed to be. He grabbed a pair of plates from the drying rack with a bit too much energy. “First lesson: strategic nose bumps. Very effective.”

Akaashi did not look up from the bowl, a quiet smile on his face “Second lesson: how to accidentally-on-purpose touch hands for maximum emotional confusion.”

Koutarou almost dropped the plates. He made a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whine. “Hey! That wasn’t part of the syllabus.”

Akaashi, ever unbothered, slid the salad bowl onto the table with perfect precision. “I updated the syllabus.”

“You can’t just update the syllabus mid-class!” he protested, eyes wide.

“I can. I’m the co-instructor.”

“Excuse me, since when?”

“Since you were demoted. For snoring.”

“Wait, you heard that?” Koutarou asked, suddenly flustered.

“Of course, Bokuto-san.”

Koutarou groaned, collapsing into the chair with exaggerated defeat. They were both laughing now, the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, where neither of them could quite stop. The kind that felt like maybe this day had cracked open something warm and permanent.

Eventually, they both sat at the table, knees knocking under the surface, bowls full of cold pasta salad and mutual denial. Akaashi twirled his fork absently, like he was thinking something but not saying it.

Koutarou nudged him with his foot. “Hey.”

“Hm?” Akaashi responded, looking up.

“If this was flirting,” he said, voice a bit quieter now, like it slipped out by accident, “would you… like it?”

“I already told you—”

“No, you said you wouldn’t mind. But, would you like it?”

“I think,” he said finally, “if this was flirting… I’d be very bad at pretending I didn’t like it.”

“Oh.” Koutarou blinked. Then grinned, wide and helpless. “Cool.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Lesson three,” Akaashi said suddenly, picking up some salad. “How to survive lunch after making emotionally compromising declarations.”

“Oh my god,” Koutarou groaned, pressing his face into his hands. “This class is brutal.”

❃ ❂ ❃

The doorbell rang just as the afternoon sun slanted golden through Akaashi’s living room window. Koutarou went to open the door. Akaashi glanced up from the book he was reading, raising an eyebrow when he saw Kuroo’s familiar grin framed in the doorway.

“Sup, bro. Thought I’d drop by,” Kuroo said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.

Koutarou blinked, a little caught off guard despite having told Kuroo he’d be here. “Right… yeah, I mentioned I’d be here this afternoon,” he said, trying to sound casual while closing the door behind him.

Kuroo flopped down on the couch with a relaxed, almost smug smile. He patted Akaashi's leg as a greeting. “Figured I’d crash the party. You know, make sure you’re not just eating all Akaashi’s snacks.”

Akaashi closed his book and stood, stretching. “You know where the kitchen is.”

“Akaashi, you’re nice to everyone except me,” complained the gray-haired one.

“That’s because you’re annoying” replied Kuroo.

Koutarou chuckled, feeling the warm buzz of friendship settle around the room like the afternoon light. Kuroo always had a way of barging in like he owned the place, but Akaashi’s calm presence grounded the whole scene. Bokuto loved how different they all were, but how effortlessly they fit together.

Akaashi folded his arms, eyes narrowing just a little as he looked at Kuroo. “So, why did you actually come? Just to ‘crash the party’ and raid my snacks?”

Kuroo smirked, leaning back on the couch with that familiar lazy confidence. “Bo told me he’d be here. Figured I’d drop by to hang out, and also remind him I’m way cooler than he is.”

Koutarou laughed, shaking his head. “You wish.”

“You are both annoying,” admitted Akaashi.

“You more,” Kuroo’s grin only grew wider.

Akaashi shot him a look that promised payback but didn’t say a word.

“Well, guys,” Kuroo began, changing the subject, “I brought video games. How about some FIFA?”

Koutarou nodded quickly, excited. And so, they spent half the afternoon playing soccer on the TV screen, taking turns with the two controllers Akaashi had at home.

Koutarou couldn’t help but steal glances at Akaashi when he wasn’t playing,  when he thought no one was looking. There was something about the way Akaashi’s calm, serious expression softened in the afternoon light that made him look almost ethereal. His light eyes, usually so focused and unreadable, held a quiet warmth today.

That little mole just beside Akaashi’s mouth caught Bokuto’s attention every time he bit his lower lip in concentration. Every time he let out a yell because Kuroo was playing dirty. When he pursed his lips at the other black-haired guy’s comments. It was another tiny, perfect detail that made him even more endearing in Koutarou’s eyes.

Just like in that moment, when Akaashi’s lips pursed at Kuroo’s last comment. Koutarou tried to get back into the conversation and find out what had left Akaashi thoughtful and the video game paused.

Koutarou leaned forward, trying to catch what Akaashi was thinking about, but before he could ask, Kuroo stretched his arms and yawned exaggeratedly.

“What?” asked Koutarou, confused, just as Kuroo said,

“Man, it’s been ages since we all went out together.”

The words hung in the air for a moment.

Koutarou blinked, caught up in the game and conversation, and hadn’t actually heard Kuroo’s full question. He glanced between the two of them, puzzled by the sudden quiet.

Akaashi, however, surprised both of them by nodding calmly. “Okay, sounds nice.”

Kuroo almost choked on his grin, exchanging a quick, stunned look with Bokuto.

Bokuto’s mouth fell open slightly. “Wait, what happened? Are we going out tonight?

Kuroo turned to him with a smug tilt of his head. “Yeah, I suggested it, and guess what—Akaashi agreed. Miracles do happen.”

Bokuto blinked again. “Oh. Okay. Cool. Coolcoolcool.”

Akaashi is going out. At night. To a public place. With people. Where there will be lighting. Clothes. Decisions. Body language. Shoulders. Biceps.

Kuroo was looking at him weirdly, like he’d grown a second head.

What should I wear? he thought, eyes wide with fake calm. Something casual, but not boring. Black? Sleeves or no sleeves? Sleeveless shows off the arms but what if it’s too much? Something tight maybe. Subtle tight. But it’s too hot to wear tight clothes, shit. No sleeves, then.

“You good, Bo?” Kuroo asked, amused.

Kuroo is always effortlessly cool. He probably has an outfit ready for anything. Dude, what if I show up looking like I’m trying too hard? What if Akaashi thinks I look like I just came from the gym? What if I smell?

Bokuto squared his shoulders.

He had time. He had clothes. He had arms. He could do this.

He was gonna look good tonight.

Hopefully.

Chapter Text

Koutarou stood in front of his closet like it was some kind of pop quiz he’d forgotten to study for. As if he expected the answers to fall from the sky — in this case, a good outfit to go out for drinks with his friends.

He’d done it a thousand times before, so why would it be any different this time?

He sang loudly to the song playing on the speaker, mumbling the words as he tugged on a black T-shirt, trying to pull it out of the messy, overstuffed wardrobe. He held it up, stared at it for three seconds, then threw it on the bed like it had insulted his ancestors.

Too basic. Too black. Akaashi liked black. Would he think Bo was copying him?

Another shirt followed—a tight, sleeveless one he usually wore to the gym. Good arms. Good shoulders. Bad idea. Akaashi would know. Kuroo would definitely know. It screamed I’m trying too hard, and Koutarou didn’t want to scream. He wanted to, like, imply.

“Okay,” he said to the mirror. “Just chill. You’re hanging out with your friends. One of whom you’re maybe a little in love with. It’s fine.”

His reflection gave him nothing but judgment.

He tried on a grey short-sleeve button-down. Not bad. Slightly rolled sleeves. Casual but clean. He looked like someone who might know how to mix a cocktail and quote poetry. Akaashi would probably like that. Unless he didn’t. Unless it looked like Koutarou was trying to be someone he wasn’t.

He groaned and flopped face-first onto his bed. The pile of discarded shirts absorbed his despair like a cotton grave.

His phone buzzed. A message from Kuroo, to whom he’d said bye to barely an hour ago so they could all go home and get ready.

On my wayyyy

U better not be having a fashion crisis

Again ;)

Koutarou glared at the screen.

i’m not!!! shut up!!!

Another buzz.

That means ure definitely having one.

He sent back a skull emoji, then sat up, rubbing his face. Deep breaths. Clothes were just clothes. Akaashi had seen him in sweatpants and a mustard-stained hoodie before, and this was not a date. Definitely not a date. Just friends. Going out.

Friends who stare at each other a little too long. Who text at night about nothing and everything. Who know the exact placement of each other’s birthmarks.

Koutarou stood again. Faced the closet. Pulled out a soft blue henley that hugged his chest just right without looking like it was trying. Rolled the sleeves. Nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, trying on a smile. “Okay. This is the one.”

He sprayed his usual cologne. Then a little more. Then opened the window to stop choking on it.

He checked the time. He still had ten minutes. That was enough to panic a little more and change again if necessary.

His phone buzzed again. Kuroo.

We r outside. If you make us wait while you change shirts again, I’m going to post that picture of you with ur ass out.

Koutarou groaned and grabbed his keys.

And there they were.

Kuroo was leaning against the railing like he was in a fashion magazine for guys who don’t try too hard but still get asked for their number twice a week. He wore a plain white tee, jeans that probably cost too much but looked annoyingly perfect on him, and his usual smug grin.

“You didn’t chicken out,” Kuroo said, pushing off the railing like some kind of streetlight model come to life. “Nice shirt, Bo. You finally listened to me.”

“I didn’t. Shut up,” Bokuto muttered, even though he had, in fact, listened. And also googled “casual hot guy outfits” twenty minutes earlier.

And then his eyes landed on Akaashi.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

Akaashi stood a little behind Kuroo, checking something on his phone, completely unaware of the damage he was doing to Koutarou’s brain. He was wearing black—of course—because that was just who he was. A super dark black, and with no dust particles in sight. He was perfect like that, choosing somehow a colour that highlighted every single part of him that Koutarou had absolutely no business staring at.

He was wearing a black tank top, collarbones on full display for the whole world to see. He’d also put on a thin gold chain around his neck. He’d paired it with dark gray trousers and sleek sneakers.

His arms (His arms!) were lean and toned, lightly defined. There was a freckle on the inside of his bicep that Koutarou wanted to write sonnets about.

And his hair. Perfectly messy. Not too styled, not too “just woke up.” And his face—his actual, criminally pretty face—was lit by the golden remains of the evening sun in a way that made Koutarou’s breath hitch.

He looked manly. And elegant. And sharp. And soft. Like a poem in human form. Like a painting. Like a song. Basically, a piece of art.

Kuroo turned to see what had made Bokuto fall completely silent, then grinned like he knew.

“I know, right?” he said under his breath. “He’s so hot it’s unfair.”

Akaashi looked up just then and gave them both a calm, polite smile. “You’re late,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket.

Kuroo snorted. “He had a full-on existential crisis in front of his closet.”

“I did not!”

Akaashi's eyes flicked over to Koutarou, slow and deliberate, taking him in from head to toe. A beat passed.

“You look nice,” he said simply, then turned and started walking toward the street like it wasn’t a verbal grenade.

Kuroo’s mouth opened in exaggerated shock.

Bokuto nearly died.

What? What did that mean? You look nice!? Was that normal? Was that platonic? Was he sweating? He was definitely sweating.

Kuroo elbowed him with a smirk. “Come on, loverboy.”

Koutarou followed, brain short-circuiting, heart thumping too fast for a casual hangout. He was going to survive this night, he hoped.

The streetlights flickered on as they stepped outside, the evening air warm and sticky. Kuroo wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Alright, let’s get there quick before we all turn into puddles. This heat’s brutal.”

He glanced over at Akaashi, who looked completely unbothered by the heat, like he was made for summer evenings. If Koutarou had to say what season Akaashi was like… hmm, it wouldn’t be summer exactly. More like spring, actually. But Akaashi rocked summer like a pro. He was one of the few people who could actually pull off cool outfits even when it was insanely hot outside. For Koutarou, that was basically impossible. He didn’t want to wear black to avoid absorbing heat, he shouldn’t wear shorts with loose T-shirts. And tight clothes were a no-go either because hello, sweat city! Man, picking what to wear in summer should not be this hard.

He tried to focus on keeping pace with Kuroo and Akaashi as they made their way to the bar. It was a tiny little bar, just a couple streets from Koutarou’s place—a fifteen-minute walk or so. Not some sketchy dive, but definitely not fancy either. They had a couple pool tables, dart games, and a few slot machines that Koutarou was totally not allowed to mess with (I’m not a guy of vices, okay!). Oh, and they served popcorn with the beers, which was kind of awesome. Kuroo liked it a lot, so obviously, everyone else was into it too.

Inside, the bar smelled like a mix of spilt beer, cleaning product, and something smoky. The kind of place where the stools were sticky, but people came anyway because the drinks were good and the vibe was right. Tonight, they had some musician playing live.  Kuroo slid onto one stool, Akaashi another, and Koutarou hesitated before choosing the one in the middle.

“First round’s on me,” Kuroo declared, already waving down the bartender with a grin that said he was ready to spend a little too much money on his friends. Akaashi gave a small nod of approval, eyes scanning the room almost absentmindedly, but Bokuto couldn’t look away.

Just as Koutarou was about to lean back and try to play it cool, the bar’s lights flickered once—and then everything went dark.

A collective groan rose from the crowd.

“Man, we just got here,” Koutarou groaned.

“Maybe the power will come back on quick,” Kuroo said optimistically, squinting into the dark like he could already spot the switch. For now, the only light barely allowing them to see was the red emergency light coming from the entrance door. The faint red glow cast an eerie tone over the bar. Koutarou felt a chill run down the back of his neck.

A few seconds passed, but the lights still hadn’t returned. The bar remained swallowed in darkness, the murmur of confused patrons growing louder.  Akaashi pulled out his phone and clicked on the flashlight. “Let’s move outside. It’s stuffy here.”

Koutarou nodded, grateful for the reprieve from the oppressive heat and darkness. They navigated through the crowd, the sound of nervous laughter mixing with whispers and soft curses of people stepping on each other’s feet.

The alley was a narrow slice of the city night; a sliver of cool air, the scent of damp pavement, and the faint aroma of grilled street food from a nearby cart. The only light was the natural moonlight above their heads, dimmed by the lights of Tokyo, and some string lights hanging overhead, flickering weakly, casting soft pools of yellow light that barely chased away the shadows. Bokuto figured they probably ran on batteries or solar power, judging by how dark the place next to the bar was. Or the one after that. Or the next one.

“Looks like the power’s out all over the neighbourhood,” Kuroo muttered, loudly stating what everyone already knew.

Koutarou leaned against the brick wall behind him, “At least it’s cooler out here. I was sweating like crazy inside.”

Akaashi leaned back against the brick wall as well, eyes scanning the crowd with calm curiosity. “Hopefully, the power company gets this sorted soon.”

They settled into the small space, the patrons slowly gathering like moths drawn to the dim glow of their phones and the soft hum of conversation.

After several minutes passed, and it really started to feel like things weren’t going to get better anytime soon, Koutarou straightened up and stepped forward. “We could always try our luck at another bar,” he offered, not entirely hopeful but trying to stay upbeat.

Before either Kuroo or Akaashi could answer, a sharp drumming sound cut through their thoughts. Everyone’s heads turned at once, instinctively drawn to the same spot right across the alley, against the opposite wall.

There they were, the band from inside the bar. Same crew, same instruments… and now, apparently, a banjo.

The guy on the cajón gave the crowd a grin. Beside him, a tiny girl leaned casually against the wall, one foot propped up to brace the banjo against her thigh. With a flash of slightly crooked teeth and a mischievous smile, she called out to the alleyway full of people:

“How about we make the wait a little more fun?”

The guy started slapping out a beat on the box—quick, upbeat, full of bounce. The girl paused for just a second to listen, then jumped in with the banjo, letting it ring bright and lively into the night.

Koutarou blinked, then grinned. He found himself drawn in, the earlier anxiety melting away with each pluck of the strings. The crowd shifted closer, forming a loose circle as the music filled the alley. Faces softened, bodies moved to the rhythm.

He leaned a little off the wall, arms loosely crossed. The banjo’s twang was sharp and bright, but the cajón grounded it, warm and steady like a heartbeat. Even the city felt quieter for a moment, like Tokyo had taken one long breath in and was holding it, just to listen.

Akaashi glanced over at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t big—it never was—but it was real. Koutarou caught it like a spark, let it flicker in his chest for a moment too long. He smiled back, quick and almost shy, then looked away.

The girl had started singing now, some old folk tune that none of them recognized. It was in English, but it didn’t matter what the lyrics were. It was the kind of song that made you feel like you’d heard it before in a film.

The banjo picked up speed. Someone clapped. A group of strangers started dancing off to the side. Limbs, laughter and heat, it was cute. The alley had turned into its own kind of venue, lit by the glow of the string lights overhead, the faint scent of someone’s cigarette lingering in the air, and the cheerful voices of the duo carrying the sway of bodies caught in the summer breeze.

Akaashi, who had just moments ago closed his eyes to listen more deeply, began to move with the rhythm, peeling himself away from the wall with an effortless sort of grace. Kuroo followed suit, and Koutarou, jealous as he was, started moving too, side to side at first, trying to act chill.

The swaying turned into a light bounce. The bounce into little hops. Until he was practically bouncing in place like a kid at a summer festival. Akaashi laughed when he saw him, and grabbing one of Koutarou’s hands, spun him around and around without stopping, until the three of them ended up quietly laughing together.

The moment was perfect, with Kuroo laughing right next to his ear and the girl’s raspy voice singing softly in the other. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, thick with thirst, and sweat was dripping down his back. Still, he didn’t care about the burning soles of his feet or the smell under his arms, because this was a little perfect moment.

Koutarou wanted to stay in it. Just a little longer.

❃ ❂ ❃

Koutarou wanted to leave.

The girl with the banjo was leaning close to Akaashi, laughing at something he said with that tiny sparkle in her eye. It made Koutarou’s chest twist uncomfortably. She wasn’t just talking to him, she was flirting, loud and clear, with that cheeky smile and the way she tucked her hair behind her earIt wasn’t fair, because she was super cute, with her pink hair styled in two spiky buns, her perfectly imperfect cat-like smile, and the nose ring that glinted under the dim light. Akaashi loved piercings, even if he didn’t seem like the type, so Koutarou’s brain kept sending out warning signals followed by big red exclamations.

Kuroo, the devil himself, had nudged Koutarou’s side and smirked, whispering loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, “Hey, Bo, you said you needed to go to the bathroom?”

“No, what?”

“Come on, maybe we can find some empty street back here,” he said, grabbing him by the forearm and making a move like he was gonna lead the way.

The girl and Akaashi watched them, curious. Koutarou’s face turned bright red, like he’d just been thrown into a boiling hot tub. Great, now Kuroo was putting on a show with him. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to play it cool, but every nerve in his body was screaming, jumping, throwing up.

The girl, not really interested in the whole Kuroo-Koutarou banter, turned back to Akaashi. She whispered something, and Akaashi smiled like it was actually funny.

Koutarou gave Kuroo a smack on the shoulder that made the black-haired guy laugh. “Don’t get jealous, Bo. Seriously, this guy’s got no eyes for anyone but you.”

His eyes flicked back to Akaashi, hoping the guy didn’t hear that. But yeah, luckily Akaashi was smiling and nodding at whatever the girl said.

While Kuroo kept poking fun at him, seeing right through Koutarou, Akaashi turned to them just as the girl flashed one of those smiles she’d been giving Akaashi for the last two minutes.

“Guys, this is Mina,” Akaashi said, pointing her out.

Koutarou’s brain scrambled to come up with something clever or cool to say, but honestly, all he wanted was to step up and protect Akaashi like the big goofy guardian he was. Instead, he just stood there frozen, feeling like a total third wheel on a tandem bike.

“You’re the bomb, girl,” Kuroo congratulated. He stepped forward with an exaggerated bow. “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou,”

“I’m Bokuto Koutarou,” he shifted awkwardly beside him, voice quieter than usual, a flicker of something heavier behind his words. “You were great with the banjo.”

“Thanks, thanks! Honestly, I’m not that great with the banjo. I was just carrying it around today ‘cause I had class earlier,” she laughed.

Kuroo grinned wide, clearly enjoying the moment way too much. “You know, Akaashi here’s got a secret too.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough for a tease. “He plays the bass. Like, seriously. The dude can make those strings sing.”

Mina’s eyes lit up even more, if that was possible, and she tilted her head, intrigued. “No way! That’s so cool. Bass players are so hot.”

Akaashi’s cheeks tinted just a little pink, but he kept his usual calm. “It’s just a hobby.”

Koutarou’s jaw tightened. Watching Mina’s eyes sparkle as she leaned closer to Akaashi, it was like the rest of the world had melted away and all he could do was stand there, tangled up in his own frustration.

Akaashi’s shame was rare, the faintest shade of rose that only appeared when something truly caught him off guard. It wasn’t often. Akaashi was usually so composed, like a still pond untouched by wind. But now, with Mina laughing softly beside him, that quiet warmth bloomed like a secret blossom Koutarou rarely got to see.

Fuck him, honestly. It’s whatever.

He swallowed the lump of jealousy growing heavy in his throat. It wasn’t like he could say anything. Or maybe he could, but it would come out all wrong, and Akaashi would hate him forever. Few fates seemed worse than that.

Instead, Koutarou forced a half-smile and let his voice drip with just enough edge to sting.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan club already, Akaashi. Didn’t know you were collecting those.”

Kuroo, who caught the tone instantly, elbowed Koutarou’s ribs.

“I thought you were the leader of that fan club, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, cocky.

Koutarou blinked as the corner of Akaashi’s mouth twitched into a smirk. His cheeks remained tinged pink, even pinker now.

He shoved the feeling down hard, refusing to let it show It was ugly, and it embarrassed him. He had rarely felt this way, like an immense sorrow that, although it wouldn’t make him cry, left him utterly shattered. As if his body wanted to shift from solid to liquid and turn into a puddle. At least if that happened, Akaashi would pay more attention to him than to the girl, Mina.

He felt very, very bad about what was going through his mind. He knew that if the girl’s interest had been aimed at Kuroo, he would have liked her more. He might even have joked with her. But that wasn’t the case, and that said more than he was willing to put into words.

Besides, why was Akaashi playing along with this girl? Was he imagining it, or did Akaashi’s smile really mean something more? Just a few hours ago, the two of them had been all sweet and close, so why was Akaashi showing interest in the pink-haired girl now, when he was standing right in front of him?!

Koutarou’s gaze flicked between Akaashi and Mina, searching for any hint of what was really going on behind that calm, blushing face. His mind twisted every glance, every laugh, into proof that Akaashi was slipping away, bit by bit.

Mina leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling. “I’d really like to hear you play bass sometime.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Koutarou forced a smile, though the knot in his stomach tightened. He knew Akaashi wasn’t interested in Mina the way he was imagining. Akaashi wasn’t like that.

They ex-changed instagram accounts, and the girl quickly noticed how little the dark-haired guy used his; zero posts and only a couple of story highlights. They followed each other, exchanged shy little smiles, and said, “See you later.”

As soon as she left, Koutarou pouted, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. Kuroo flung himself on Akaashi in a big, energetic bear hug. “Was that flirting, Akaashi?”

“Nope," he replied.

"Sure, sure..."

"It wasn't! And if I was, it would be way more obvious, and you wouldn’t have to ask if I was hitting on her.”

Koutarou glared at Kuroo, still sulking but unable to deny the truth in Akaashi’s words. “Well, it felt like flirting.”

Akaashi raised an eyebrow, calm and unbothered. “Bokuto-san, if you were interested, I would get your name tattooed on my chest. In Arial 48.”

For a moment, silence fell like a dropped pin. Then, Kuroo burst out laughing, clutching his side, “Okay, I see it.”

Koutarou’s pout faded a bit, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, yeah, very funny.”

Akaashi’s expression softened as he glanced at Koutarou. “You worry too much.”

Bokuto’s pout deepened.

Kuroo clapped both of them on the shoulders. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s get out of here before this turns into a soap opera.”

Since the power hadn’t come back on, they decided to walk and find another bar, which they did find a few streets down. Akaashi stayed close to the gray-haired boy the whole way, and at one point, he leaned in to whisper in his ear, taking advantage of Kuroo walking a bit ahead, distracted, typing something on his phone.

Akaashi leaned in close, his voice soft enough only for Koutarou. He felt the brush of his lips on his earlobe, just for a second, like an accident. Then, the warmth of his breath, “You don’t have to worry. She was just being friendly.”

Koutaro’s chest tightened, but hearing those words made the knot in his stomach loosen a little. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, though the jealousy still twisted inside him. “It’s stupid,” he said, pout reappearing. “I shouldn’t feel like this.”

“Not stupid,” Akaashi said quietly.

For a moment, they walked in silence. The street was quiet. Then, he swallowed and met Akaashi’s calm eyes. “You can’t be this handsome in public,” he muttered, half-joking, half-serious.

Akaashi’s eyes twinkled with amusement, a rare softness in his usual composure. “Then I’ll try to be less distracting,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere.

Kuroo turned to look at them and came to a sudden stop, waiting for them since they were a couple of meters behind.

Akaashi’s gaze met his once again. “I’d really get your name tattooed on my chest, Bokuto-san.”

“Ha, I understand now.”

Chapter Text

The gym was empty except for the echo of Koutarou’s footsteps and the sharp thwack of volleyballs hitting the hardwood floor, a steady rhythm that distracted him. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, his shirt clinging to his broad frame. He launched the ball high into the air, jumping with all his might to spike it.

Again. He tossed the ball up and jumped, muscles tightening as he slammed it down. His arm ached, but he welcomed the pain. 

His brain was totally running a hundred miles a minute, going over and over his friend’s behaviour a few nights ago, that curl of pink hair on the girl, Akaashi’s damn smile when he followed her on Instagram. He didn’t wanna think about it anymore. He knew it was pointless.

But his heart betrayed him, twisting into a tight knot whenever he thought about them together. The way Akaashi’s eyes had softened when he looked at Mina, the easy laughter they shared. It wasn’t fair. Not because Akaashi might like someone else, but because Koutarou felt like he was losing ground he didn’t even realize he was fighting over.

The worst part was that it actually made sense. And here he was, all clueless, needing a smack of reality like this just to realize what he had right in front of him. Akaashi was good-looking, seriously gorgeous™, and if he could see it, anyone could. Fuck.

He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, breathing hard, trying to force his mind back to the here and now. His body was working, but his thoughts felt heavy and slow, like dragging a weight through mud.

Focus on the ball, on the game. Not on what-ifs! He thought, dropping into a crouch to dig a ball that rolled far from him.

He bounced the ball on the court again, watching it rise and fall with a hypnotic rhythm. Volleyball was simple; same moves, same muscle burn, nothing like… real life.

But even as he practiced serve after serve, a small voice in his head whispered doubts. Was he okay? Did I screw things up?

Sure enough, it had been a couple of days since they’d seen each other. Was Akaashi mad? There was no way to know. He missed him.

It was coincidence, or maybe just a stroke of luck, that after his quick training he saw a message from Akaashi.

Miss you. Want to hang out?

A rush of relief mixed with sudden anxiety flooded through him. He glanced down at his sweat-drenched shirt, the dampness clinging to his skin.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure if he should quickly shower or just reply.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Koutarou typed back.

yesss!!!

sounds good

where lol

As he hit send for the last message, a fragile hope blossomed inside him. Maybe it was fine.

❃ ❂ ❃

The moment Bokuto sank onto the couch, Keiji could tell just how drained he was. The way his broad shoulders slumped, the heavy breaths escaping his lips, the way his skin glistened with sweat. It was clear the training had taken everything out of him.

Seeing the tension radiating from his friend’s body, Akaashi suggested giving him a short massage. Short because partly he didn’t like giving massages; it was boring and tedious, but he wanted to do it for Bokuto. Bokuto was stunned, but after a couple of seconds he nodded vigorously, though silently.

As Keiji’s hands found Bokuto’s back, kneading into the tight muscles with oils, he felt the strain beneath his fingers. He must have been exhausted, judging by the knots he had over his shoulders, the weight of silence pressing down on his back.

There was something else, too. A stiffness beyond the physical. Keiji’s mind flickered with doubt. Was Bokuto upset with him? His silence, the way he’d been avoiding eye contact, the radio silence the past few days…It was hard not to wonder.

While it was true that Bokuto rarely got angry, and when he did it usually didn’t last long, Keiji also knew that when he was truly upset, he became silent. And today, Bokuto was strangely quiet.

It’s not that Keiji was paranoid. Well, maybe a little paranoid, but with good reason. It’s not that Keiji was extremely paranoid, but the unusual behaviour of the gray-haired boy was making his skin crawl with fear. Had he done something wrong? Could it be because of what happened the other night? Keiji thought he had solved it, that he had cleared up Bokuto’s doubts and left his mind at peace, but what if that wasn’t the case? The tense smile and dull eyes of the older one were not a sight he was used to.

He hesitated for a moment before breaking the quiet. “Are you mad at me?”

The question hung between them, uncertain but necessary.

Bokuto’s laugh was soft, almost embarrassed. “No, just… confused.” He shifted slightly, wincing as Keiji’s fingers dug into a particularly sore knot.

Keiji didn’t even notice the sudden increase in pressure; his concern for Bokuto’s well-being had unknowingly made his hands work harder, pressing deeper into the tight muscle without realizing it. He was so caught up in trying to understand the quiet tension between them that his touch became firmer, as if he could knead away the unspoken worries simply by pressing harder.

Why exactly Bokuto was confused, Keiji didn’t know. He wanted to ask, but something held him back. Instead, he focused on the rhythm of his own hands, feeling the stubborn knots under his fingertips, wishing he could ease whatever burden lay beneath.

In that moment, Keiji barely registered Bokuto’s sharp intake of breath or the subtle wince his fingers caused. His mind was swirling with doubts, trying to piece together the unspoken puzzle between them, not realizing that his efforts might be causing more discomfort than relief.

“You’re strong with your hands, huh?”

Keiji startled, suddenly stopping the continuous movement of his hands, “Sorry. It’s supposed to hurt a bit, though, that’s how you know it’s working.”

But even as he said the words, a part of him wondered if he had pushed too hard, if the pressure was more a reflection of his own anxiety than Bokuto’s needs.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Bokuto let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head to lighten the mood. “If your massages were any gentler, I’d fall asleep right here,” although he couldn’t see it, since Bokuto had his back to him, he knew he was smiling. “But don’t worry, I kinda like it when you pretend you’re a wrestler trying to kill me.”

The tension in the room eased a little, and Keiji felt the corners of his mouth lift in a small, grateful smile. He threw himself onto Bokuto’s back, wrapping his arms tightly around him and resting his chin in the hollow of his neck in a weird hug. His chin and part of his shirt got smudged with body oil, but he didn’t mind.

The quiet confusion wasn’t gone, but for a moment, at least, the weight of it seemed a little lighter.

A bit later, when Keiji shifted on the sofa, moving from Bokuto’s back down to his forearms and hands, he noticed something subtle—a hitch in Bokuto’s breath, soft but undeniable. The big guy’s eyes lingered on him longer than usual, heavy and searching while still, his gaze fixed on Keiji like he was trying to read something deeper, almost zoning out. Keiji caught the way Bokuto’s lips parted slightly, and for a moment, his usual hype melted away.

Keiji was a bit struck, to be honest.

His hands slowed, tracing gentle, slow circles on Bokuto’s palms. He couldn’t tell if the tension was truly fading or merely shifting to a different place, but he knew one thing with certainty: this closeness, the silent language their touch spoke when words failed—that was something neither of them wanted to rush away from.

Still, despite the calm surface, Akaashi’s mind was burning with restless energy. Why is he looking at me like that? Keiji wondered, a flicker of frustration biting at his patience. The silence and the uncertainty were driving him crazy. His own temper flared quietly.

Keiji’s hands moved almost instinctively, tracing along the strong, familiar lines of Bokuto’s arm. His fingers pressed into the thick muscles with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Damn, he thought, he’s built like a freaking tank. His muscles were sturdy, firm, and soft all at once, and definitely attractive. Akaashi couldn’t understand how someone could be that good-looking and not realize it, walking down the street with arms and shoulders bare without thinking about the possible heart attacks he caused along the way.

There was something mesmerizing about the way Bokuto’s muscles flexed and relaxed under his touch, the way the skin shifted, the subtle tension beneath the surface. Keiji’s mind drifted, caught somewhere between awe and a bit of envy. How did he even find clothes that fit?

He was so caught up in the moment, so focused on the strength beneath his hands, that when Keiji squeezed a little firmer, and suddenly Bokuto tensed up and flexed back, he was returned to reality.

Keiji yelped, nearly jumping off the couch. “Okay, okay, no need to turn into the Hulk here.”

Bokuto laughed, the sound deep and ringing, “Just making sure you’re paying attention, Mr. wrestler. Can’t let you get too comfortable.” His grin was mischievous, eyes sparkling like he was challenging Keiji to a duel.

Keiji rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “You know,” he muttered, half to himself, “this would be a lot easier if you weren’t built like a refrigerator.” He gave the arm another squeeze, gentler this time, then shifted his grip to massage Bokuto’s bicep more carefully.

Bokuto turned his head a fraction, fake offense on his face. “WHAT?”

“Mm-hmm,” Keiji said, utterly deadpan. “Tall, wide, unreasonably solid. Probably weights two hundred pounds and hums when it’s overwhelmed.”

Bokuto gasped like Keiji had personally betrayed him. “That is so rude, Akaashi!” he looked up, then back at Keiji, "In any case, I would be a brand new refrigerator without a single flaw."

Keiji snorted. "You hum, Bokuto-san. And your knees crack when you stretch."

Bokuto gave a haughty little scoff and flopped dramatically back into the cushions, sending Keiji a little forward with him. “You’re just jealous. Not everyone gets to be a majestic, muscle-bound kitchen thing.”

Keiji laughed under his breath, smoothing a thumb along the curve of Bokuto’s bicep before letting go. “Right. That must be it.”

But soon Keiji found himself grabbing Bokuto’s arm again, slippery and shiny from the oil, and pulling it toward himself to finish massaging the arm he had left. Bokuto followed the movement, his abs groaning from the minimal effort of sitting up.

He pressed his fingers into the muscle with steady, deliberate pressure, working out the tension patiently. The warmth of Bokuto’s skin was unmistakable beneath his hands. Slowly, Keiji’s hands traveled down, moving behind Bokuto’s elbow where the muscle tightened, gently kneading the knots there. He traced down toward the forearm with careful, measured strokes.

And then, without warning, Bokuto spoke—quieter now, more careful.

“Akaashi?”

Keiji didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah?”

Bokuto shifted slightly, “Can I say something?”

“Yes. What’s up?”

Keiji kept his hands moving in slow, steady circles. Bokuto took a breath, growing shy. Keiji could see it in his friends eyes, although he wasn’t looking back. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, about all this closeness. It’s messing with my head more than I expected.”

Keiji’s hands paused. “What do you mean?”

Bokuto shifted slightly, still not looking at him directly. His free hand played with the fabric of the couch, making aimless little circles, “I mean, you’re not just a friend to me. You’re different. When you touch me like this, it’s not just—. It’s something else. I feel it.”

Keiji swallowed, heart beating a little faster in his chest. “Why do you worry about it?”

“Well, what if this changes everything? What if I mess it all up?” Bokuto finally met his gaze, wide and honest in a way that made Keiji’s chest tighten. “I don’t want to lose what we have, but I don’t want to lie to myself either.”

Keiji’s fingers resumed their slow, reassuring motion, tracing soft circles along Bokuto’s skin. “You’re not going to mess anything up,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out together. No pressure. No rush. Just us.”

Bokuto’s shoulders relaxed, a small smile creeping onto his lips. “Okay. Together?

Keiji smiled back, the quiet weight between them feeling a little lighter now. “Yeah. Together.”

Keiji’s fingers drifted down to Bokuto’s hand, almost mindlessly starting to massage the thick palm and long fingers. He worked slow, careful circles, pressing gently into the knuckles and tracing along the lines, the motion soothing for both of them.

“I was jealous, I think. The other day.”

“Hmm?”

“It feels horrible.”

Keiji’s hands didn’t stop moving, but his voice softened. “I’m sorry, Bokuto-san. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” Bokuto interrupted. “I’m the one who should apologize. I mean, it’s a bad feeling. I don’t like having it inside me. I know you can’t control that stuff, and all that, but that girl was really cute, and you looked interested. It’s messed up to want you all to myself, Akaashi.”

Keiji smiled faintly, his fingers still tracing slow circles on Bokuto’s palm. “You’re not alone in that.”

Bokuto’s eyes widened, then, they sparkled with mischief. “Oh? So you’re saying you want me all to yourself too?”

“You’re not exactly easy competition, either. Everybody likes you.”

Bokuto leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. His hair fell over his forehead in its usual unruly spikes, some strands catching the soft light. His thick eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly in mock offense, but the warmth in his eyes was undeniable, bright and inviting.

Keiji’s gaze followed him, taking in the strong line of Bokuto’s jaw, the faint dimple that appeared when he smiled, the way his skin gleamed slightly. For a moment, the world shrank to just the sound of their breaths, the sweet smell of the body oil.

Then Bokuto shifted again, nervous now, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.

“So… uh… this might be super awkward, but… now that we are clear, uhh…would it be okay if I kissed you? Like, right now? I mean, only if you want, and if it’s not weird…”

Keiji blinked, caught off guard. He gave a small nod, voice low and steady. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

His hands, still holding Bokuto’s hand between them, tightened firmly, revealing the nerves beneath his composture.

Bokuto’s grin broke wide open, equal parts relief and excitement, and he moved closer, the space between them shrinking fast. But just as their faces were about to meet, Bokuto’s laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, catching him off guard as much as it caught Keiji.

He pulled back slightly, still chuckling, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, sorry! I don’t know why I’m laughing. This is so dumb.”

He covered his mouth with one hand, cheeks flushing a bright shade of red, eyes sparkling with embarrassment and amusement all at once. His shoulders shook slightly as the laughter bubbled up again, that giddy energy making it impossible to stop.

Keiji smiled, amused, “You are so cute.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Akaashi!” he said, pretending to be grumpy. Slowly, the laughter faded away, leaving only the trace of a very big smile. “Okay, okay, I think I’m fine now.”

That was a lie. As soon as he moved closer to Keiji again, the laughter burst out from his chest once more. Keiji would be lying if he said he didn’t expect it. It was kind of funny, really, the more he tried to hold it back, the more the laughter took over, caught in a moment of unexpected joy. His whole body seemed to buzz with nervous excitement, and even though he was embarrassed, there was no hiding how genuinely happy he was.

Keiji watched Bokuto’s laughter with a soft smile, realizing this wasn’t going to end anytime soon. He was adorable. When Bokuto’s chuckles started to slow just a little, Keiji gently squeezed his hand and leaned in closer.

Without a word, Akaashi closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips softly to Bokuto’s smile, gentle and sure. The warmth of the kiss surprised Bokuto enough to quiet the laughter entirely, his eyes fluttering closed as he melted into it.

It only lasted a moment, and as soon as they pulled apart, Bokuto’s little smile made its grand return. His eyes softened as he looked at Keiji, his usual energy quieted into something tender. Without hesitation, he leaned in again in a hurry, closing the distance this time, his lips brushing against Keiji’s with warm sweetness. It was a quiet, earnest kiss, full of the unspoken feelings that had been building over, at least in Keiji’s case, the last few years.

Bokuto’s lips lingered softly against Keiji’s, thin, soft and warm, like they were testing the water before diving in. Keiji’s hand tightened just a bit around Bokuto’s, steadying them both, before sliding it gently up his arm. The touch was light, careful, as if he was afraid of it being too much.

It was, in fact, not enough.

When their lips parted, it was only by the smallest breath, their foreheads resting against each other’s as their shy smiles slowly returned.

Bokuto’s eyes sparkled with the same nervous excitement, a warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re really cute when you’re serious,” he whispered, although up until now Keiji had been sure that Bokuto was incapable of whispering.

Keiji grew serious very quickly. Then he swiftly grabbed the older guy’s shirt, pulling him even closer to himself. Bokuto propelled himself slightly forward, his hands finding grip on Keiji’s shoulders, who in turn lunged at him to grab his face, his jaw.

They leaned in again, this time with less hesitation, and their kiss continued slowly. Their breaths mingled, hot and unsteady, while Keiji’s fingers traced gentle circles along Bokuto’s jawline, anchoring them both in the moment. Bokuto’s hands slid up from Keiji’s shoulders, threading into his hair as if to hold on to him tighter, as if afraid the connection might break.

Time stretched and folded between them, neither wanting to be the first to pull away. When at last they did (It was Akaashi), their eyes locked, shimmering with something new.

Keiji let out a soft laugh, breathless. “You really are a bad kisser,” he murmured.

Bokuto grinned, the sparkle in his eyes never fading. “You should be grateful I didn’t use tongue, then.”

“I’m actually not very satisfied with that,” admitted the dark-haired one. “Okay, move.”

But Keiji didn’t give him the chance to move.

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he grabbed Bokuto by the shoulders and twisted him sideways, pressing him firmly against the back of the couch. With a small, satisfied smile, Keiji watched as Bokuto blinked, startled by the sudden movement, and then sank into the cushions.

Keiji climbed him like a tree, settling neatly into his lap. And before Bokuto could even mumble a curse, Keiji was kissing him again.

Bokuto made a surprised sound into the kiss — half laugh, half groan — as Keiji’s weight settled over him. His hands went to Keiji’s elbows, tense. Keiji found it cute as hell.

He didn’t mind, though. In fact, it just made him kiss harder, deeper, his fingers threading into the messy strands of Bokuto’s hair as he tilted his head, angling for a better fit. Their noses bumped, once, twice. Bokuto tried to follow his lead but only succeeded in knocking their teeth together.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, breathless, grinning.

Keiji just laughed against his lips, low and pleased, and kissed him again and again, catching Bokuto’s lips everytime. Slower this time, but with intent. Bokuto’s brain stuttered and went blank. His hands went instinctively to Keiji’s waist,then up his back, gripping just a little too tight like he still wasn’t sure what to do with them hands.

Then Bokuto pulled him closer, arms wrapping fully around Keiji’s waist now, and the kiss deepened almost by accident. Tongues slid together, awkward and warm and messy, but they didn’t stop. If anything, the heat crackled between them like it had been waiting for this spark.

Keiji shifted in his lap, deliberately, and Bokuto sucked in a sharp breath against his mouth. His fingers dug into Keiji’s hips like he didn’t trust himself not to float off the couch.

“Still not satisfied?” Bokuto asked, voice rough, lips brushing against Keiji’s.

Keiji smirked, eyes half-lidded. “Getting there.”

It was then, in the middle of that sweet moment, that the doorbell rang. They both groaned at the same time in harmonious irritation. Bokuto tilted his head back, resting the nape of his neck on the back of the sofa.

Keiji devoured him with his eyes, watching the pale skin of the older man’s neck.

“Were you expecting someone?” Bokuto asked. Keiji quickly shook his head and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Then another. Bokuto smiled, shyly.

After another couple of scattered kisses across Bokuto’s lips and jaw, just as they were both starting to forget the interruption, the doorbell rang again.

Keiji pulled away from his friend’s lap, and with his index finger pointing toward the living room door, signaled for Bokuto to go see who it was. Bokuto got up without complaint, but the moment he opened the door, he regretted not putting up a bit of a fight about having to answer it.

Standing there, arms akimbo, was Kuroo. Bokuto slammed the door in his face.